All Under Heaven
by Rookie571
Summary: A young USAF pilot based in Japan, is placed at the forefront of a one-sided conventional conflict; between what's left of humanity, and giant otherwordly creatures known only as Angels. What he and the others hadn't realize at the time, was that against these massive monstrosities, everything that they knew about warfare would be rendered completely and utterly irrelevant.
1. First Contact

_"Saberhawk Flight, this is New Yokota Control."_ An English-speaking voice piped in on his flight helmet's built-in comm-link. _"Recommend you maintain current course at one-nine-three, speed four hundred and fifty knots closure at angels five for about twelve minutes. Acknowledge, over."_

 _"Saberhawk Two copies, over."_ another voice piped in.

"Saberhawk One acknowledges, over." he replied quick while adjusting his flight controls accordingly.

 _"Roger, solid copy on all. Be advised, you'll enter Tokyo Three airspace in less than ten mikes steady on this bearing. Once you do enter Tokyo Three ADP, command authority will be transferred to UN AWACS asset, designate Clairvoyant. Proceed with caution, over."_

"Roger, Control. Will do."

 _"Good luck, gentlemen. New Yokota, out."_

 _"_ Saberhawk Flight, out."

With a quick flick of a finger, Captain Jameson Reagan of the United States Air Force made short work of shutting off the transmission back to New Yokota Air Base. Sighing heavily on his oxygen mask, he wondered for what seemed like the fifth time today of how unreal this all was.

To say that details about this op were sketchy at best was a damn near-colossal understatement, and the extremely curt pre-mission brief his squadron commander had given earlier wasn't exactly helpful in that regard. What he did know, was that sonar sensors embedded underneath Sagami Bay had detected an unknown object on the sea floor, and it was heading inland at a slow but steady rate. They didn't know what it was, who sent it, or even why it was coming to the fortress city of Tokyo-3 in particular; but what they did know for certain was that it was massive. With an estimated height of _at least_ seventy-meters.

Imagine that. Seventy _fucking_ meters! That's as tall as a fucking skyscraper!

When he first heard about it from his commanding officer, he thought he was joking. But seeing how grim and unflinching the man's face was inside that squadron briefing room, he immediately felt his gut clench and his throat go dry. And as far as he knew the man, he wasn't exactly known for being a kidder either. Which didn't help the captain in any way, shape, or form.

And so after about a few more minutes of prep time, him and his wingman were immediately vectored towards the southbound city of Tokyo-3 ten minutes later, from the sprawling UN air base out of Hachioji, and flying two F-22 stealth fighters loaded for bear in what was technically just a reconnaissance mission.

Although, to be honest, this was the first recon mission he knew of—and participated in—that needed a complete weapons package of air-to-ground ordnance, and a full load of twenty-millimeter cannon rounds. Seriously, he already had to sacrifice part of his overall fuel capacity to carry all this hardware, and if that didn't tell him how serious this situation was, then he didn't know what would.

Not to mention the atmosphere that the brass in New Yokota was giving off wasn't exactly that of a jovial and merry mood, either. Before he was scrambled, he heard from scuttlebutt that the entire UN Command in this region had been mobilized after seeing the fucker just casuallly waltzing under the sea, and that nearby garrisons were already being dispatched to pre-planned mission areas surrounding Tokyo-3 to confront the approaching threat. He really didn't know if it was true or not, but he wouldn't doubt it if it was. Though, if he hadn't known any better, he'd have thought that the upper echelon was in a complete state of panic.

Not that he could blame them, however. In retrospect, who wouldn't be? After getting a glimpse of a big ass object approaching towards them at a casual pace, anyone with a sane mind would definitely lose their shit.

Still, he did hope that whatever this thing was that was definitely coming for them, it wouldn't be too much of a hassle to deal with; that nothing short of a few SLAM-ER missiles would help eventually solve this particular problem.

The thought of which didn't fail in bringing out a smile to Reagan's lips.

He needed it.

 _"So,"_ the second voice from earlier suddenly sounded out on his comms, originating from the plane flying alongside him, _"does this mean our dinner date with the twins is cancelled, then?"_

The captain barked out a quick laugh underneath his oxygen mask.

"Of course it fucking is," he replied while watching his instruments and the heads-up display in front of him, "what makes you think we're getting to the restaurant in time after this?"

 _"I dunno, blind optimism maybe?"_

"Could be. Either that, or you just _really_ want to screw Ayumi's brains out later tonight."

That elicited a chuckle from his wingman, First Lieutenant William Saint Paul, who was barely containing his laughs on the frequency that they shared.

 _"Can you really blame me, Cap? I mean, no offense to your impeccable eyesight, but I swear they keep on getting hotter and hotter each time we see them."_

Reagan just shook his head in mild amusement.

"Glad to know that someone is valiantly bridging the gap between our two very different cultures."

 _"You know me, sir. Just doing my civic duty and all that shit."_ the first lieutenant happily replied, before switching to a different tone. _"Though, there is one thing I don't get..."_

"What's that, Will?"

 _"I don't need to remind you that Ayumi's twin sister is, well, for lack of a better term, completely fucking into you right?"_

He already could see where this was going, and he was completely trying his best to fight off the urge to facepalm. He was utterly failing, though.

"What is it about her, now?"

 _"What I don't understand, oh Captain my Captain, is that why aren't you taking advantage of this insanely wonderful moment?"_ Saint Paul continued on his tirade. _"Azumi, who's oh-so drop-dead gorgeous just like her sister, thinks you're cute for some fucking reason. You don't know why, I don't know why, safe to say is nobody really gives a good shit why. But the most distressing part is, and I cannot stress this enough, is that you're not really doing anything in your power to—well, I don't know—tapping that woman's glorious ass? Seriously Cap, what the fuck? Uh, sir."_

He couldn't fight the urge anymore, and with a motion that's well-practiced since he was paired off with Saint Paul nearly a year ago, he bent his head low, and very effortlessly placed a gloved hand on his bone dome helmet; in the part where he knew his eyes and forehead were underneath.

The stealth fighter was already set on autopilot, so he wasn't overly concerned about covering his eyes for the briefest of moments. He really couldn't help it. It was like an automatic reflex now whenever Saint Paul did something stupid or just plain opened his mouth.

Come to think of it, if there ever was a non-verbal way of summarizing all the time together he spent with his wingman, this was really it. No doubt about it.

"Christ sakes', Will. We've been over this more than a dozen fucking times."

 _"I know, but it completely boggles the mind, Cap. And it's not just me, too. The rest of the boys either think you're a fucking eunich, or that you're a closeted flaming homosexual. And based on the betting pool we got going on at the moment, they are now pinning their hopes on the latter. Not that I blame you though. What with so many good-looking hunks on base, it's hard not to notice. Especially with me being one of those said hunks..."_

"I really should have you court-martialed," Reagan said offhandedly. "Lord knows I have enough reasons to get you tried and convicted. Hopefully with any luck, you'll be put in front of a firing squad."

 _"Ouch, mein Captain. Why are you hurting me this way? Don't I deserve some loving like the rest of the good folk in this cruel and embittered world?"_

Reagan's way of reply to that statement was to crane his head towards the right, his gaze now locked to the F-22 Raptor flying in formation next to him, and flipping the pilot of the other plane off with a certain finger.

Safe to say, Saint Paul saw the gesture through his cockpit's bubble canopy and proceeded to laugh his ass off once more.

 _"Jesus fucking Christ, you really_ are _a big softy."_ the first lieutenant said after his bout of laughter, slightly out of breath. _"I still don't get it. Why are you so intent on looking for this supposed, 'the one'. The odds of that ever happening are really fucking high, man. As in, like, a billion or so to fucking one."_

"It just doesn't feel right with Azumi, Will. You _already_ know that." Reagan finally replied sincerely, for what could only be the nth time that he's ever did, most especially since Saint Paul kept on asking the very same question, given the chance. Over, and over, _and over_ again. "Like I told you before, there's just no spark between us."

What was so hard for him to comprehend any of this? Of just wanting a monogamous and meaningful relationship? Was it really that difficult to understand? He certainly didn't seem to think so, but his fellow pilot seemed to disagree.

 _"She happens to think there is,"_ Saint Paul offered. _"And according to Ayumi, you're definitely her type."_

"Look, I won't deny it, she's a helluva a girl. But..."

 _"But what?"_

"But...hmmm," The captain contemplated for a bit, then went back, "you know what? Just forget it."

 _"Wait, what?!"_ Saint Paul expressed frustration at the sudden dismissal. _"You're shitting me."_

"Nope."

 _"You do realize I'm never gonna let this go until you tell me, right?"_

"I know. But, like I said, just forget about it."

 _"Tell me."_ the first lieutenant pushed. _"Tell me right fucking now."_

"No."

 _"Jameson Alexander Reagan, you stubborn fucking mick, you tell me right now."_

"Lieutenant, don't make me turn it into an official order." Reagan tried to warn sternly.

 _"Don't care,"_ Saint Paul immediately quipped into the line, _"tell me."_

"You do realize that I have the power to have you thrown into the brig, right? For this, and all the other indiscretions that I've seen you commit under my supervision?"

 _"Blow me, still don't care. Tell me. Tell me, damn you!"_

"Shut the fuck up, Will. Now _that_ is a direct order."

 _"If you don't tell me, I am going to fucking sing a song with my terrible voice, which we both know you can't stand."_

"Then I'll fucking turn this comm-line off." The captain said impatiently.

 _"Captain, why, I do declare,"_ Saint Paul countered with mock outrage, _"you do realize that doing such a thing would violate several flight regulations, right?"_ He emphasized his faux disappointment with several clicks of his tongue, _"I cannot believe you would be capable of doing such a horrendous thing!"_

"Yeah? Well, so is annoying and disobeying your flight leader, you irritating bastard!"

 _"You say these mean and terrible things to me, which are hurtful, but I know deep in my heart that you truly care about me."_

"Like hell I do."

 _"It'll all be over soon, dear Captain."_ the other pilot soothed. _"If you just tell me why you don't want to shamelessly bang and/or date Azumi Kitahara; a.k.a., smoking hot babe with the face of a goddess, curves that'll drive you crazy, that insanely tight and lucious ass, and those perfectly-sized ta-tas that would make any grown man cry."_

"I repeat," Reagan said with a slightly tired and immensely annoyed voice. "I am _not_ telling you shit."

 _"Final warning, Cap."_ Saint Paul threatened with a sing-song voice. _"if you do not tell me right now, I will unleash me shit hot vocal chords into your auditory canal. Be advised that it is_ not _pretty."_

"I am mentally counting off the minutes 'til we RTB, when I finally have the MPs violently throw your ass in solitary confinement."

 _"Ten seconds..."_

The young captain didn't respond to the reminder, opting instead to just look at his cockpit's state-of-the-art flight controls, all the while trying not to be tempted with _actually_ reporting his wingman to the base's military police. He wasn't kidding about the number of crappy situations that his wingman had unwittingly dragged both of them into.

Up until this day, he still hasn't forgiven Saint Paul for making a still in their shared dorm so that he could have some homemade gin on demand. And both of them got a harsh reprimand for it from the base commander, when he eventually found out about it after a quick inspection. Docked pay for two months, and luckily double duty for just one month instead of three.

Or on that fateful day a month ago, when the horny lieutenant brought in Ayumi—who he had just met at a bar that time—into their dorm unit and they were humping like there was no tomorrow, moaning and downright screaming. And since there wasn't any soundproofing on the walls separating their two living quarters, he could hear everything that went down on that unfortunate day. And when he meant he could hear everything, he really did mean _everything._ For starters, it didn't take long for him to understand what _iku_ meant in English after the first half-hour of their marathon performance. Which lasted for three hours straight.

The result of which was only about two hours' worth of decent sleep for him, and a scathing performance review from his squadron commander, for having failed what was supposed to be a routine flight exercise from the simulator; forever tarnishing his perfect record, which he so carefully cultivated after having graduated from the Air Force Academy with honors two years ago.

That happened to upset him a lot that day.

At least Ayumi had the good grace to be embarrassed about it when she finally heard what happened afterwards. And as penance for having ruined his perfect record and his precious sleep at that time, the brunette Japanese beauty deemed it fit to introduce him to her twin sister, Azumi. Which apparently was both her and Saint Paul's idea.

Though, in all honesty, it probably was coming more from the latter instead of the former.

 _Speaking of the latter._ He thought to himself as he awaited the inevitable.

 _"You have been warned, Le C_ _apitaine_ _..."_ Saint Paul ominously gave out as he breathed in and exhaled a couple of times.

In the depths of his mind, something told him that this was going to suck. A lot. Reagan mentally braced for what was coming his way.

But before he could be subjected to what was basically a gross violation of the Geneva Convention in terms of unadulterated torture, he was saved at the very last moment by an incoming transmission from the main command frequency, sparing him from the worst thing ever devised since the creation of tofu bacon.

 _Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Lord._ He thought to himself blissfully as he readied himself mentally for this op. _Thankyouthankyouthankyou._

He didn't even bother covering up his sigh of relief when he finally answered the call. Lord knows he probably would've lost it if he heard his wingman sing one more time.

 _"Attention, attention, southbound flight coming in on one-nine-three."_ an authoritative and definitely female voice reverberated in his comms. _"This is C-Two, callsign Clairvoyant, operating_ _north-north-east relative to your whiskey, distance_ _three-four-zero klicks away at angels ten. Identify yourself, over."_

"Showtime." he sent to his wingman before finally transmitting to the floating command center that was extremely away. "Uh, roger wilco, Clairvoyant. This is Saberhawk Flight, pair of two Raptors now currently operating within Tokyo Three ADP from New Yokota. Ready for tasking. Over."

" _Authenticate. Sierra Delta, over."_

Reagan grabbed the nearby communications booklet strapped on his lap, and flipped the pages open for the correct counter-response. Which he found a few moments later.

"Zulu, X-Ray Six, over."

 _"Affirmative, Saberhawk Flight. Authentication confirmed."_ Clairvoyant responded. _"Be advised, you are now operating under execute authority for this callsign, and will follow standard protocols and ROE guidelines set forth by this callsign from here on out. How copy, over?"_

He expected as much. It was already understood from the get-go that when him and Saint Paul were pawned off to the nearest command and control asset, they'd take orders and instructions from there and be off their merry way once the op was finished. And as such, a reminder wasn't really all that necessary to begin with.

The only reasonable explanation he could think of, as to why he was being sort-of lectured about this, was because this nugget was either new to command, or that she got her rocks off by reminding everyone of their place in the military's food chain.

Since she was a woman, Reagan could only assume that it was unfortunately both.

Nevertheless, he just acquiesced to the not-so-subtle reminder from the CO.

"Roger, Clairvoyant. Saberhawk Flight copies all, over."

 _"Excellent. Standby for tasking, Saberhawk Flight. Wait one, over."_ And then the line clicked off. Leaving the captain alone with his thoughts.

 _"Man,"_ Saint Paul commented on the two-way comm-link that they shared. _"I don't mean to sound like an dick_ — _"_ That's a first, he thought to himself. _"—_ _but she kinda sounds like she's got a massive stick up her ass, don't it?"_

The captain didn't respond to that statement, opting instead to just groan audibly on his mic as a way to reply to his wingman. Knowing Saint Paul, he'd shut up about it well enough.

After all, this was their first major sortie here in Japan, and it wouldn't do both of them any good if they were being grounded indefinitely afterwards because his subordinate just happened to piss off a superior officer. No matter how warranted it may be.

Plus, he really didn't want any more blemishes on his record. After what had happened previously, once was more than enough.

 _"Saberhawk Flight, this is Clairvoyant."_ the female voice returned after being gone for about half a minute or so. _"Standby for new tasker, over."_

"Roger wilco, ma'am."

 _"Recommend you head south-east. I say again, shift your course to one-three-five and decrease altitude to angels two. Maintain current airspeed on your approach, over."_

"Roger." Reagan replied automatically as he shifted his plane to adjust to the Raptor's new given heading.

Flying just above the pre-Impact 255 National Highway in Odawara, the captain depressed the pedal underneath his left foot and felt the stealth fighter slowly ease itself towards the east. While he was at it, he also banked the aircraft a few degrees down to the left to help with the turn, and carefully decreased his altitude from five thousand feet to two thousand, which took about a minute of constant finessing with the flight stick.

Next to him, his wingman dutifully followed in near perfect formation on his right.

 _So far so good..._ he said to himself as he finely manipulated the controls of the aircraft.

After about two minutes' worth of constant adjustments, he finally leveled his Raptor and headed straight towards the direction the AWACS had given him. Up ahead, he could see the coastline that was rapidly approaching, along with the hollowed out and abandoned pre-Impact buildings that were littered all along the flight path down below.

He thoroughly ignored the eerie feeling in his gut from seeing all the dilapidated structures and continued onwards.

In his helmet-mounted speakers, the AWACS commander was still active.

 _"...be advised,"_ Clairvoyant continued, _"once you hit the coast, Saberhawk Flight is to proceed into a holding pattern around grid papa-bravo-eight-four-six-three-nine-one, and provide overwatch on the designated area. Acknowledge, over."_

 _"Copy,"_ he heard his wingman reply in the affirmative, while Reagan wordlessly lifted his throttle hand away from the speed controls and inputted the designated grid on the GPS interface in front of him.

A small box was highlighted in the navigation screen a few seconds later which, according to the display, was just a quarter of a klick away from the coastline. His HUD told him that he was going to arrive there momentarily, where he and his wingman had orders to fly in lazy fuel-efficient circles around a grid that was just two square kilometers in length, and observe anything that was happening there.

He could only assume that this was the general area in which the unknown object was planning to come out of, in all it's undisturbed and hopefully not-so-intimidating glory.

Without much preamble, the young captain readied the sensors and outboard cameras littered all over his aircraft, which he was going to use to capture everything of relevance concerning the unknown object's approach.

 _ELINT sensors...check._ He thought as he swept through the diagnostics reading on his main display. _COMINT and SIGINT systems...online. AESA is a-ok. LADAR sensors, alright. Optical imagers within nominal levels._

 _"Clairvoyant, Saberhawk Two, flight is now feet wet."_ Saint Paul reported once they were past land and were now above the bay's shimmering surface.

"Saberhawk now going into holding pattern," Reagan stated as he inputted the controls on his aircraft's auto-pilot. "At grid papa-bravo-eight-four-six-three-nine-one, over."

 _"Roger Saberhawk Flight, proceed on mission and ensure that your rec-cap is rolling."_

"Wilco, Saberhawk One copies all."

As ordered, he checked his rec-cap, which was shorthand for the mission data recorder embedded on his seat, and was satisfied with it's readiness shown clearly on the display.

 _"Clairvoyant, this is Saberhawk Two. What's the ETA on this bastard, over?"_

 _"ETA is any damn minute, Saberhawk Two."_ Clairvoyant hotly replied. _"Now unless you have anything useful to report, clear off the command channel."_

 _"Uh, roger that...Saberhawk Two, out."_ there was a brief pause, and Saint Paul shifted towards him: _"Man, what a fucking bitch."_

 _"...excuse me?"_ An obviously female and most definitely outraged voice replied on the line, instead of the captain the lieutenant was expecting.

 _"Oops."_

Reagan could not stop the grin forming on his face as both Raptors started the first turn into their holding pattern above their assigned grid.

Apparently his wingman forgot to switch off the main frequency before opening his big-ass mouth.

 _"Would you care to repeat that, Saberhawk Two?"_

 _"No, ma'am."_.

 _"Are you sure?"_ the voice answered sweetly. _"Because I did not just hear one of my subordinates say what I think he just said. On an open frequency, no less."_

 _"Could be solar interference from the atmosphere, ma'am."_ His wingman quickly offered. _"Heavy sunspot activity today, must've been causing trouble on the comm systems and resulted in you mishearing something, over."_

 _"It better be."_ Clairvoyant menacingly shot back on the frequency. _"Because if I check the mission recorders later and it says otherwise, someone is getting to get busted down a grade. Or two."_

A sudden, shrill beeping took the captain away from the unfurling drama before him and into the cockpit's secondary sensor display. Where the data from the sonar sensors embedded underneath the bay was being transmitted to his screen directly.

 _What the hell...?_

He didn't have a chance to fully analyze the readings, as all of a sudden, the massive object surfaced dramatically out of the waters of Sagami Bay; giving both him and Saint Paul a first look into what it was.

And just how _enormously big._

Suffice to say, it completely did not disappoint.

What followed next was Saint Paul perfectly describing their somewhat precarious situation.

 _"Oh, shit."_


	2. Opening Salvo

**Hey, fellas! This is my first time writing an Eva fic, so please don't forget to leave a review to tell me what I need to work on and stuff.**

 **Would greatly be appreciated. I need all the help I can get. Please and thank you!**

 **Anyways, enjoy!**

* * *

Time seemed to stand still, as Reagan took stock of what was unfurling in front of him.

The giant object, in which his reconnaissance flight was initially ordered to observe, had finally decided it was high time to reveal itself. And when it did, all of the young captain's higher brain functions slowed to a screeching halt.

 _Dear God..._

He didn't know the exact words in which he was going to use to accurately describe this...this _thing,_ that finally made landfall into Tokyo-3's AO. But what words that he _could_ use—though general in it's assumption as it may be—was that it was humanoid, to say the least; it's body horrendously tall as it was thin, and it's proportions obviously not matching those of a regular human being.

The arms on the fucking thing were so stretched, that it was freakishly long enough to reach even below its knees, whereas its legs and feet where elongated and clearly asymmetrical.

On it's torso, there was a shiny red orb rooted somewhere in what he could only hope was the thing's solar plexus, and just slightly above it, was it's head.

Or at least he thought it was it's head. He wasn't rightly sure. As it looked more like an embedded face mask, and there was even a beak on it like that from a bird, that was just below what he could only assume was the eyes. The lack of a visible neck and the placement of it's pseudo-skull only seemed to strengthen that assumption.

He was openly gawking at that thing underneath his helmet and oxygen mask, and his head just mutely following the thing's slow trek further inland through his bubble canopy.

In hindsight, it was a good thing that the autopilot was already set, and his Raptor was flying on it's own; otherwise, he would've already crashed his overpriced stealth fighter and died a really fiery and explosive death. And he wouldn't even notice it too, as his eyes just kept on staring on that ungodly monster straight from someone's hellish nightmares.

He could sense an icy lead ball materializing in his gut from out of nowhere, as well as feel both of his gripped hands shaking ever so slightly on the jet's flight controls. He honestly hadn't remembered being this downright scared before in his entire life, and it was freaking him the hell out internally.

How long he just stared at it, he couldn't really say for certain; and he hadn't even bothered looking at his mission chrono to know the relevant details, as he was too engrossed at what was happening.

Though if he had his way, and based on his current predicament at the moment, he most definitely would've just stared at this thing for all of fucking eternity.

But fortunately enough, a voice from the main command net broke him out of his dazed and extremely frightened stupor.

 _"Saberhawk Flight,"_ Clairvoyant, the C-2 asset commanding them, impatiently sounded off, _"do you have visual, over?"_

The young captain shook his head—a normal human head, he quickly reminded himself—vigorously to keep it in the game. The last thing he needed now was to freeze off in a situation like this.

"Uh—" he cleared his throat audibly "—roger, Clairvoyant. S-Saberhawk has visual on the unidentified bogey, over..."

 _"Copy, relay vid-feed to this transmission. Over."_

He sighed.

"...roger wilco."

With a series of briefly hesitant switch flipping and input commands on his main display, Reagan sent the vid-feed from his plane's optical imagers, which were basically the military's version of an extremely high-resolution camera, and relayed it towards the floating airborne command center three hundred kilometers away.

It didn't take very long before he finally heard the unmistakable gasp of a shocked woman very clearly on the frequency.

It would seem the massive creature before them had that effect on people.

 _"What...what.."_ the female superior officer on the other end of the line tried to vocalize. _"What the hell is that thing?"_

He gazed his head left once more to look at the creature, just casually maintaining it's pace.

 _Damned if I know._ The captain thought grimly to himself, as he and his wingman kept on circling overhead in a perfect holding pattern. _It still doesn't even feel real..._

What followed next was complete and utter silence, as both pilots in Saberhawk Flight, as well as the crew and officers in the United Nations AWACS bird far way, just maintained their steady gaze at the inhuman creature; who was broaching ever deeper into the heart of the shattered Japanese mainland.

Reagan had no doubt that Clairvoyant had already relayed his transmission to the higher-ups further in the chain-of-command, and he didn't know how, but he knew from the bottom of his heart that whoever was seeing all of this from a distant underground command post somewhere was as silent as they were.

Hell, even Saint Paul was utterly mute at the sight, and for better or worse he always found a way to keep on talking, regardless of everything that's happening around them.

He didn't know what to think about that particular thought.

* * *

Meanwhile, a kilometer underneath the sprawling and heavily fortified fortress city that was Tokyo-3, inside a massive subterranean construct known as Central Dogma to be exact, three high-ranking military officers remained firmly rooted in their seats; as the immense holographic projection in front of them displayed the real-time vid-feed from one of their reconnaissance flights.

All three of them had already been briefed about the possible arrival of this...creature, several months ago, in a highly top-secret briefing presided over by the Commander of a clandestine organization known only to them as NERV. They didn't know why there were being told about it, or what this agency's actual purpose was for that matter. But they didn't bother questioning it, as it's bespectacled and enigmatic head just informed them of the immediate and alleged threat that was soon coming their way.

Needless to say, they didn't really pay it much heed back then.

As such, when the time finally came—to their immense disbelief—they thought they already knew what to expect. And therefore they were supremely confident, that such a thing's surprise appearance wouldn't necessarily result in their determination wavering.

But now, seeing it up close and personal, just looking at how massive and awesome it really was...it had already pushed their nerves to its extreme limits.

It still seemed all too surreal, but that didn't really matter at this point.

"Mother of God," the first officer breathed as he kept on looking.

"Looks like that bastard Ikari wasn't lying after all." the second one pointed out.

They continued looking at the unknown object's approach deeper into the flooded fringes of the city, their eyes never wavering until the third officer finally joined in.

"It's heading towards the outer perimeter of the main defense line." he said matter-of-factly, his gaze dead serious. "Won't be long now until they make contact."

"Well, gentlemen, this is what we're here for," the second officer said calmly as he turned his head left. "General Matsunada?"

The first officer looked to face him, unbridled fear clearly etched on his features.

"Yes?"

"Make the call."

* * *

 _"Saberhawk Flight,"_ Clairvoyant finally said after having found her voice, in what was nearly an eternity of silence. _"standby for priority tasker, over."_

"Roger that," Reagan softly replied, finally tearing his eyes away from the monster and back to his HUD and instruments. Looks like he finally regained some semblance of control over his brain, for whatever that was worth.

 _"This one comes straight from the brass at Tokyo-Three, gentlemen. You are to increase altitude at angels three, maintain current airspeed, and continue your holding pattern above the unknown contact, over."_

 _"Clairvoyant, interrogative,"_ Saint Paul latterly chimed in after a brief period of absence, though his voice sounding completely weary and serious, _"do we still maintain orbit at the same grid reference, over?"_

 _"Negative, Saberhawk Two. High Command wants Saberhawk Flight to continuously shadow the unknown's position and maintain recon at this time, over."_

 _"Roger wilco, ma'am."_

 _"You are the eyes and ears for our upcoming assault, Saberhawk Flight."_ Clairvoyant gently reminded them, a far cry from her harsh and authoritative tone earlier. _"A lot is riding in on this, and we're counting on you to help get the job done. Good luck, boys. Clairvoyant, out."_

And just like that, they were finally alone again as the AWACS bird winked out of the main command net once more.

The young captain just blinked wordlessly, as he started to readjust his bird's altitude a fourth time to go along with his current set of orders.

 _What the hell is that thing...?_ He asked himself in his mind as he watched his altimeter steadily rise from two thousand feet to three thousand. _Or more importantly, what's it capable of?_

On his main display, he watched the unknown contact—monster, fiend, whatever the hell it was—now waist deep on the outskirts of the flooded city of what was once pre-Impact Odawara.

Tall skyscrapers, that used to stand with unspoken pride and precision, now mostly submerged in high levels of overflowing seawater coming in from the bay; due in part to Antarctica melting all at once, from a high-speed impact originating from a tiny meteoric pebble fifteen years ago.

Yep, another horrible reminder of Second Impact.

Reagan grimly remembered what had happened during that fateful day, when he was just eight years old at that time. The widespread global panic, the ever constant riots, and the pointless wars that followed in its wake.

While a meteor as tiny as a pebble hitting a sizable landmass wouldn't necessarily cause something as cataclysmic as, say thoroughly obliterating a continent-sized ice cap and wiping out a third of humanity in general, said pebble that was traveling in near-relativistic speeds theoretically could. Given with enough kinetic energy at it's disposal.

Well, at least not theoretically anymore.

Suffice to say, it took a while before humanity ultimately got it's shit back together, and nothing really was the same after that; where the planet's overall disposition was instantly changed overnight, and two billion of it's human occupants instantly depopulated in the blink of an eye.

 _Not really the time to go strolling in memory lane, boyo._ He reprimanded himself mentally.

About several klicks into it's journey inland, he eventually saw the contact approaching the outlying edges of Tokyo-3's main defense perimeter, which was in this case the lead elements of a tank battalion situated in the mountainside roads of Mount Asama. According to his optical imagers and his fighter's embedded Blue Force Tracking, there were thirty-six tanks all in all, along with various support vehicles, ready to greet the walking abomination; with all of it's turrets already pointed outward, at the incoming target coming from the body of water in front of them.

The captain temporarily zoomed out the optical imagers and refocused them on the tanks instead, to see who had the honor of initiating first blood.

Looks like all of them were Japanese Type 74s, he observed, hurriedly repainted in UN colors and heavily retrofitted to fight in a modern battlefield. In this day and age, those tanks were already considered antiques, and rightly so. Seeing as they were forty years old.

But, given that they were probably the only things that the Japanese Strategic Self-Defense Forces had plenty of besides a near-limitless defense budget, he could warrant a guess that the higher-ups wouldn't necessarily shed any tears if they were destroyed outright.

He honestly hoped that wasn't the case. Without further thought, he tuned in his comm-link to the same frequency as the ground forces.

 _"Baseplate, this is Hama Six,"_ a heavily-accented male voice suddenly said in the main command net. _"Primary hostile now within optimal firing range. Requesting permission to engage, over."_

 _"_ _Rojā, Hama Six."_ an even equally accented voice answered back. _"You are cleared hot. Engage. Out."_

 _"Firing."_

Moments later, the tanks on Reagan's LCD screen suddenly disappeared in a cloud of black and orange as they opened up on the contact—now a verified target—with their large caliber guns. He automatically switched his optical imagers to infrared to compensate. Zooming out, he saw the rounds arc through a considerable distance before seeing them all hit the seventy-meter tall target with pinpoint accuracy.

Which was saying much, considering the tanks' age and somewhat outdated equipment. Those Japs sure know how to shoot.

Brief sparks of orange lit up in the monster's torso, but other than that, it showed no indication of slowing down and just kept on it's usual stride. There wasn't even any signs of outward damage to where the rounds had landed. Reagan noiselessly stared at the way the thing just shrugged off the assault.

At the other end of the line, he could clearly hear the frustrated growl of the battalion commander, who was very much trying vainly to stay calm and collected.

 _"Hama, this is Six."_ The man had ordered. _"Switch to HEAT."_

Again, wordlessly, all thirty-six tanks fired. And all hit home at exactly the same points where they had fired before. But instead of tiny sparks grazing it's obviously armored body like earlier, sizable explosions littered all along the torso, as the tanks switched from armor piercing sabot rounds into high explosive impact shells. It showed as quick flashes of intense bright light on his now gray scale screen.

 _"Damn it!"_ he heard the man swore in Japanese as the smoke from the barrage lifted. The target was still unaffected and very much nonplussed. How the hell did it do that? _"All tracks, fire at—!"_

Before the battalion commander could finish his order, the target—which has very much closed the substantial gap between it and the attacking tanks—faced the Jap armored battalion without stopping and casually raised it's left arm.

It was almost too fast for him to follow, but his eyes somehow managed to track the bright point of light lashing out of the creature's left hand, like that of a medieval lance, as it stabbed a tank in the battalion's far right flank—then moved it's hand quickly in a wide sweep towards the leftmost end.

What happened next was something that blew the living hell out of Reagan's already troubled mind.

In an instant, all thirty-six tanks in the battalion, along with it's assortment of support vehicles, exploded near-simultaneously from one another...

...in a span of no less than eight seconds.

He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

Reagan was already gasping and wide-eyed as he witnessed the entire mountainside of Mount Asama being lit up in a series of massive and beautiful explosions. Taking anyone who was unfortunate enough to be there on a straight path to hell.

He didn't even hear so much as a scream from the unit's frequency, as they were being mercilessly wiped out in the entire time it took a person to quickly breathe in and out.

If he thought he was scared earlier, then right now he was downright panicking. He could feel his breathing pick up, and his heart going bonkers beneath his ribcage as sweat started pouring profusely on his forehead. Even the temp-controlled cockpit of his stealth fighter did little to ease the amount of perspiration.

"Oh, my God..." he breathlessly stated without thinking.

The target barely even slowed down, as it went along it's merry way as if nothing had ever happened, heading due southwest at the entrance of a valley that led it straight towards the outer ring of Tokyo-3.

The very same entrance that had been valiantly guarded by a battalion's worth of Japanese tanks just a minute earlier, which were now becoming smoking wrecks as time went on, along with what's left of its crews.

 _"Hama Six, come in,"_ a voice asked out in his helmet-mounted speakers, _"Hama Six, do you read, over?"_

It went on for about twenty more seconds or so, before the officer contacting the tank battalion had painstakingly realized that they had already gone into the afterlife.

He could've contacted the man himself, in retrospect he really should've, but the captain was far too preoccupied with the fact that he just witnessed almost three hundred souls vanish into the next world. Mostly against their will.

He belatedly realized that he was never going to forget about this moment any time soon.

If he was completely honest with himself, he genuinely had no idea what was keeping him from losing it like a complete fucking lunatic.

 _"Batteries Alpha and Bravo, this is Baseplate."_ The voice came back after about a minute's worth of heavy silence. _"Standby for orders..."_

Reagan just tried to listen in attentively as his flight of F-22's dutifully followed the target from above, recording and relaying everything. He briefly wondered what Saint Paul's reaction was to all this? He'd been _awfully_ quiet to the point where it was starting to become unsettling.

 _"...target is now entering killzone one-echo,"_ the voice went on, _"proceed with fire mission. Over."_

 _"Alpha copies all, over."_

 _"Battery Bravo, wilco. Engaging."_

Sizable columns of streaking white smoke rose from behind the two mountains surrounding the ascending valley floor, as more than a handful of MLRS artillery tracks unleashed their payloads of deadly missiles, racing towards the unsuspecting target from two directions.

The ordnance being launched were American-made MGM-140 ATACMS, a surface-to-surface missile system that housed a unitary blast fragmentation warhead capable of annihilating the toughest of armored vehicles in a wide blast radius, and/or even more than capable of penetrating the most heavily protected bunkers buried deep underground.

Basically it was more than enough to completely ruin somebody's else day. Or this monster's.

And it didn't take long as the munitions finally arrived more than five seconds later, with radar fuses in the noses making the missiles explode three meters before making impact, showering the tall giant with lethal blast fragments. It was like a bunch of fireworks were puffing explosions all around the surrounding target without actually making contact with it's surface.

It still didn't do a damned thing, as it kept on walking. Undamaged, and gleefully ignorant.

 _"Baseplate, this is Battery Alpha. Negative effect on target, over. Fire mission is combat ineffective."_

The ground commander wasn't deterred, as he ordered another round of strikes, this time with twice as many missiles. The end result was still the same, though the valley was now littered with dozens upon dozens of new craters that weren't there earlier.

But that didn't stop the man in charge of the ground pounders, as he ordered yet another barrage, and then quickly followed by another.

And _then_ another.

It got to a point where the artillery batteries were already maxed out from the indiscriminate firing, and they got on the main command frequency to report just that.

 _"Baseplate, Batteries Alpha and Bravo report bone dry."_ the radio squawked with the update. _"Munitions completely expended, rounds are complete. Fire mission six is now complete. Still negative effect on target, I say again, strike six combat ineffective at this time. Please advise."_

The ground commander actually screamed on the radio net with utter frustration and disbelief, stating more than loudly that he used enough ordnance to level the original city of Tokyo two times over.

In another time, Reagan would've thought it was funny that a grown man—not to mention a senior officer in the ranks of UN military command—completely loses his shit in a manner unbecoming of an officer, and throws a ridiculous tantrum like that of a little kid straight outta her mother's tits.

This was not of those times, however; as the captain just mentally crossed off the massive artillery barrage as another colossal failure on their part.

Safe to say, his confidence in the success of this mission was now certainly below average.

The man kept on bitching for the better part of five minutes, before finally acceding command of the op to the United Nations' combat air wings, placing his ground forces on standby and on needlessly auxiliary roles.

The overall air wing commander, housed in another orbiting AWACS—callsign Juliet Actual—was unbelievably excited at the prospect of downing this massive bastard that had everyone scared.

Reagan wasn't necessarily brimming with optimism when the leading elements of the nearby friendly squadron eventually popped in on his radar screen, after being on station for about half an hour in the inner perimeter of Tokyo-3, and were now on an approach vector towards the target. Weapons already locked and loaded, by the looks of it.

 _"Juliet Actual, this is Viper Lead,"_ a confident voice piped in, _"we have visual ID on primary hostile, over."_

 _"This is Cobra Lead,"_ another joined in, _"approaching the target's low six. Over."_

 _"All flights, Juliet Actual,"_ a third voice, this one sagely, calm, and definitely male, sounded off in the freq. He was curious as to what happened to Clairvoyant? _"Maintain minimum safe distance of five klicks at this time, I have a little surprise for our giant friend here. ETA one minute. Standby."_

As promised, that little surprise arrived at exactly a minute later, inbound from the southwest straight out of the massive air base in Numazu. In the shape and form of three Tu-95 strategic bombers, hovering in a three-ship formation of about a thousand feet, and just cruising at a relatively safe speed of two hundred knots.

When it was finally overhead at the target, all three bombers opened their cavernous bomb bay doors and dropped loose their respective ordnance. And upon further inspection, it wasn't necessarily your typical load of carpet bombs that would overwhelm something with sheer numbers.

No, what they did drop was just three sizeable unassuming bomb canisters. The size of which was just about a third the dimensions of his Raptor in overall length. He already knew what kind of ordnance it was before they even hit the ground.

Or more technically, it didn't even have to hit the ground. As doing so would severely limit the overall impact of it's nominal yield, similar to that of regular bombs equipped with standard proximity fuses. No, what this type of bomb did was detonate _before_ it had a chance to hit the ground, allowing it's explosive energy to properly spread over a rather substantial area. And they didn't even have to use the usual fuel-oxidizer mix commonly found in most bombs, either. Everything inside of it was mostly all fuel.

Hence their name. Fuel air bombs. And they were the second most powerful conventional weapon humanity had ever devised.

If they were lucky, they wouldn't even have to use the first.

But in almost all certainty, he really wasn't entirely sure about that anymore.

It also made the artillery missiles they used earlier look like a puny firecrackers by comparison.

Though right now, said bombs had already descended at ridiculously fast speeds, quickly covering the vast vertical distance between them and the target in less than fifteen seconds.

All three fuel air bombs had position themselves to surround the target, in three equidistant locations before they ultimately went off. And when it did, it went off with more than just a resounding bang.

Before igniting, these bombs immediately disperse aerosol clouds of fuel, which is then set off by an embedded detonator to produce an explosion the likes of which is not typically found in most explosives. The rapidly expanding wave front, produced by the explosion due to overpressure, would flatten all objects within close proximity of the epicenter of the aerosol fuel cloud, and then produce debilitating damage well beyond the flattened area.

Basically, the main destructive force of these weapons is the massive high overpressure it produces, which is useful against—well, pretty much anything these days: soft targets such as minefields, unprotected infantry far out of cover, then various armored vehicles, a bunch of aircraft parked in the open, bunkers, even entrenched cave systems that are buried deep in some mountains. Though in this case, unknown giant monsters straight from the bottom of the ocean would do just fine.

And it worked perfectly.

For the briefest of moments, the enormous monster predominantly taking up space on his main display _finally_ halted in its tracks, as it was surrounded by three massive fireballs; which automatically made his optical imagers polarize for a bit to readjust from the intense brightness of the explosions.

And just for the briefest of moments, behind his immense cloud of pessimism he had retroactively gathered since the beginning of this weird event, he wondered ever so slightly if they finally had the chance to defeat this terrible monster?

If, for once, something was finally coming their way?

His answer came momentarily, when the fireballs eventually subsided and the result of the fuel air bombardment wholly revealed itself to everyone.

Inside the cockpit of his stealth fighter, Reagan wasn't entirely sure on what to feel on the matter.

Whether disappointment, that his hopes for any signs of victory heading their way was unequivocally and utterly crushed? Or resigned indifference, because he already knew that this was already bound to happen, one way or another?

Not knowing what to do, he opted to feel both instead.

 _Well, we are so fucked._ he thought to himself ruefully as he kept his vigil on the target. _Since those fuel air bombs didn't exactly work out, there is only one viable option left in the increasingly useless UN arsenal..._

And if those fuel air bombs made the ATACMS look like tiny insignificant firecrackers by comparison, then this last resort made everything—including those bombs they just so recently used earlier—look like fucking pinpricks overall.

If even _that_ didn't work...well, one could only hope that these creatures could accept their somewhat honorable surrender.


	3. November Strike

**_There might be a considerable amount of mistakes in this chapter. If you see it, do let me know._**

 ** _As always, don't forget to leave a review to tell me what you guys think. Help is always appreciated._**

 ** _-Rookie571_**

* * *

 _" —Viper Flight, engage! Engage, goddamn it!"_

 _"_ _—_ _Hydras aren't doing shit to this fucker!"_

 _"_ _—for the head! For fuck's sakes, aim for the fucking...!"_

 _"—use the damn thirty mike-mike! Give it everything you've..."_

 _"—API rounds not penetrating the target and..."_

 _"—raising it's hand! All attack birds, break, break!"_

 _"—break off, it's going to attack!"_

 _"—oh, fuck...!"_

A single MV-28 Vulture suddenly exploded in mid-air, as the now familiar spear of light launched itself off the palm of the giant monster like that of a pressurized harpoon, and skewered the doomed VTOL centerline on it's sleek aerodynamic hull.

Reagan grimly watched from above three thousand feet, as what was left of the $45 million airframe crashed back down towards the ground in a blazing fireball, with secondaries going boom as the unexpended ordnance it was still carrying now started to cook off in the high temperature fires like shitty bottle rockets.

The target, still nonchalant and is basically the picturesque portrait of calm as ever, unhurriedly retracted it's signature weapon back into it's hand and went off it's merry way once more; the surrounding VTOLs however were flying all around and scrambled to get out of it's way in front of it, all the while firing whatever was left of their onboard weapons. Not that it was really doing much to say the least.

 _"Juliet Actual, Viper Lead,"_ a flight leader reported in, _"Viper Flight is being engaged, and is down a bird! I say again, one of my attack birds is dust, over!"_

 _"Viper Lead, this is Juliet Actual. Be advised VTOLs from Cobra One, a flight of five MV-28s, is on approach westbound from the target's six. And is en route to assist at this time. ETA is one minute. Stand fast, over."_

 _"We don't have a minute, damn it! It's already getting past killzone one-foxtrot, and I don't think we can slow it down at any rate!"_

 _"Calm down, Viper Lead. Maintain current situational awareness and continue to engage at a—"_

The monster slowly turned it's body slightly towards the left, with it's two circular holes for eyes plastered on it's pseudo-head quickly starting to shine intensely bright on the captain's screen. And just about half a klick away in front of the massive creature, another Vulture immediately went up in flames. With it's smoldering debris ungraciously littering all around the valley floor in a dozen places.

Upon seeing their wingman spontaneously combust, all semblance of calm and confidence this flight had shown previously now evaporated in an instant.

 _"What the fuck just happened?!"_ a panicked voice screamed on the 'net. _"Did anyone see what just happened?"_

 _"We just lost Viper Three!"_ another terror-stricken voice joined in. _"It—it just fucking blew up, man!"_

 _"Keep firing! It's gotta have a weak point or some shit!"_

The three remaining MV-28s of Viper Flight continued on their ridiculously futile assault, with their pilots relentlessly unleashing every bullet and rocket their birds had managed to bring to the fight beforehand. Dozens upon dozens of explosions and minuscular orange sparks peppered the giant creature all over, as precision guided Hydra 70 rockets and thirty millimeter auto-cannon rounds pounded the walking menace respectively.

Still with no significant signs of outward damage showing whatsoever.

A few moments later, behind the menacing target and the struggling VTOL flight fighting for their lives, another five-ship formation _—_ of what Reagan could assume was the promised reinforcements _—_ had finally arrived, and automatically took up hovered firing positions all around the contact's rear.

The men compromising Cobra Flight weren't in any need of further encouragement, as all of them opened up with their weapons wordlessly on the target's back without so much as a thought. Trying to hit it at all sides, just like common military doctrine would dictate in any normal engagement.

But everything about this wasn't normal at all.

And just like the last couple of times it was being fired upon, nothing the UN had brought upon this engagement ever worked. Again.

Seeing all their efforts go to waste once more was already getting old.

Reagan observed the target subtly picking up it's pace, as it neared the other side of the valley and into the very edges of Tokyo-3 itself. Where a small evacuated settlement was situated on it's path. Towering buildings and houses not as tall as the seventy-meter monstrosity stood immobile, as if all of them were patiently waiting for the thing to eventually pound them into very miniscule dust.

All in all, eight Vultures were now encircling the target from various angles and altitudes, ineffective weapons fire still raining on it's torso as the poor bastards assigned to take it down did all they could to even remotely slow it's approach.

At this point, firing all those useless weapons was now an exercise in futility. And just about a gross waste of the taxpayers' money.

He was fairly certain that his fellow pilots in the VTOL squadron weren't even sure about what they were doing anymore. That they were just going through the motions to, at the very least, appear as if they were _trying to stop_ the advancing threat.

With said threat presently clearing past all their designated killzones and now within spitting distance of this ward and the very important fortress city beyond it.

Out of nowhere, a couple of cruise missiles struck the target full-frontal; belatedly arriving late at the party, after what he could only assume as having traveled between the buildings and through the roads to hide its attack vector.

The captain didn't even bother expressing shock or outrage at how stupid that idea was. As if zigzagging tiny insignificant guided missiles through structures to mask it's approach would solve anything at this moment in time.

 _"Juliet Actual, Cobra Lead. Confirm all Tomahawks have struck the bogey. Negative impact on the target, over. Wait_ —"

As it consequently cleared the surrounding mountains, the giant took pause from it's walk and raised one of it's hands again for what seemed like the nth time. Having seen what it was remarkably capable of, the Vulture pilots of both attacking flights already knew what to expect and tried to veer off course to evade.

The maneuver worked for everyone else as they cleared in it's wake—all except for one pilot that was just flying a tad bit higher than the rest of his squadron, as he was being impaled by that dreaded spear of pink light right through his VTOL's clear glass cockpit.

At least he saw it coming, though. The poor bastard had even managed to let out a bloodcurdling scream in the command frequency for the briefest of moments, just right before the arrival of his gruesome death.

But instead of bursting into flames like the unfortunate targets from before, something weird happened to it instead. The now pilotless VTOL _didn't_ explode from being lanced with a ridiculous but highly effective weapon.

No. It was being suspended, in the air, for a full five seconds. Five very long and agonizing seconds' worth of witnessing a moment so incredibly unreal and out of this world that it was bordering on insanity.

A VTOL was being _fucking_ _impaled_ by a spear, that was possibly made out of pure hard light, and it just hung there in mid-air. Like nothing was wrong. Like the very laws of perpetual gravity and physics didn't even need to bother this strange event right out of the fucking bat.

It was painstakingly obvious. The target wasn't just fucking with the UN's useless attempts at trying to stop it's attack. No, it clearly did not just stop there. It just had to fuck with their minds, too. Their _fucking minds._ As if nothing was ever sacred to this fucking thing. Whatever the hell it was.

 _Jesus H. Christ._

Reagan honestly thought that moment would never end. In truth, it probably would never have, given the strange circumstances. But the monster saw it fit to prove him wrong again, as it rapidly retracted the weapon out of the VTOL and back to it's organic sheath.

With no one at the helm controlling it's flight and nothing keeping it up in the air anymore, the now just very recently unmanned MV-28 awkwardly dove nose first; one of it's thrusters sheared off, as it crashed into the ground below from a relatively low altitude towards the settlement's main intersection. Where it finally settled after hitting a five-story building head-on next to it. Somewhat relatively intact.

Miraculously, it didn't go up into a thousand burning pieces like he had expected it to. Which was odd, considering the initial strike of the spear's thorough impalement managed to pierce the aircraft's primary fuel tanks, just near the nacelle of the aircraft's multi-tilt thrusters.

Zooming the optical imagers unto the crashed VTOL, Reagan once again tried to assess the damage sustained by the downed attack bird—only to narrow his eyes in confusion as it stayed glued to the screen.

There. Near the crash site, a couple of meters away, was a semi-substantial heat signature.

Moreover, this wasn't just the residual heat from some of the Vulture's debris, too. Based on his quick assessment, it was sparsely moving. It was small, but it was clearly moving nonetheless. He couldn't really see all that well, considering the infrared vision he was presently using was meant to identify large-scale heat sigs and not much else.

With the flick of a switch on his optic controls, he switched the imagers' passive IR mode off to see the unknown anomalous reading more clearly. In an instant, his screen went from undistinctive dark gray scale and into standard color.

And was immediately rewarded with the sight of a slightly granulated and really close-up vid-feed, of a young male teenage kid wearing what looked like a Jap school uniform, cowering in abject fear besides the wreckage. Based on his proximity to the crash site, he was too-fucking-close towards the crashed MV-28 that may or may not explode at any given moment; from either the possibly leaking fuel, or from the damaged and extremely unstable ordnance it was still carrying.

 _Ah, shit..._

 _"Wh-what the—?!"_ a surprised voice yelled out in his ears. _"Holy shit! It's...it's taking off! It's fucking taking off!"_

"It's what...?" Reagan absentmindedly voiced out, momentarily forgetting about the kid he saw.

Wondering what the guy meant, he retracted the extremely zoomed in optical imagers to include the target in the overall picture. Which wasn't all that far off. And since it wasn't viewed on the imagers' bland IR mode, he could see everything in high-resolution imaging.

For starters, the guy wasn't kidding when he said it was taking off.

Just when he thought that the giant monster couldn't surprise him any more than it already has.

The target stopped mid-stride somewhere near downtown, had slightly tucked in his weirdly long arms, and raised it's weird face mask/head thing upwards to the clear blue sky. And materializing from complete nothing, everything around it glowed with ethereal golden light; as an unknown source of thrust was somehow generating behind its legs and lifted the giant off of the ground with almost relative leisure, blasting the streets, abandoned vehicles, and everything below it with near-gale force winds.

His visored gaze automatically followed the massive creature's somewhat graceful flight, as it made it's ascent for about a hundred feet into the air. Traversing half a klick east away from it's preceding jump-off point, it slowly glided the rest of the way down towards solid ground.

He didn't even care that he was staring at the thing wide-eyed and amazed once more, like a bewildered child ever since he first saw the fucking thing. He naturally just couldn't help it.

If it wasn't for the fact that it was trying to maim or kill everything it came into contact with, he'd probably thought it was captivating or something pretentious like that.

 _Wait,_ he thought to himself as he studied the creature's descent, _where is it going?_

Seeing it descending halfway down, the young captain felt his heart stop as the giant's destination finally revealed itself the closer it was to it's inevitable landing, and he just couldn't believe how incredibly shitty his luck was.

Because _of course_ it was going to land there, out of all the places it could've decided to go to.

He didn't even have to wait long before it landed directly on top of the wrecked VTOL it downed from earlier, a single enormous foot completely crushing the entire aircraft with sickening ease, as it pancaked underneath from the massive weight and force applied to it. This time around the crashed Vulture _did_ explode, covering half a block of the crossroads with deadly fires, and showering everything around the place with dangerous debris. The nearby kid he saw a while back raised his arms as if to shield himself from the coming doom, and Reagan had half a mind to close his eyes to avoid witnessing this poor little Jap kid's gruesome death. But, as much as he willed himself to avert his gaze, he just couldn't look away from the main display; as his hazel eyes focused on the kid and just the kid alone, momentarily forgetting his overall obligation as a fighter pilot of the United States Air Force, his mission, and his responsibilities as an officer. So he kept on it, knowing what was coming.

He was so engrossed in watching this kid's untimely and imminent passing, that he missed the blue car recklessly speeding down the road towards the intersection and the billowing fireball. Without a moment's hesitation, said car stopped directly in front of the teenager, shielding him from the blast, with the driver opening the vehicle's passenger side door to let the kid inside as they hurriedly sped off towards the other direction and into safety.

Everything happened so damned fast, the captain just blinked cluelessly at what transpired on his screen. Not sure if he could fully comprehend what he just saw.

He hadn't even realized that he was actually holding his breath the entire time it had happened.

The escaping blue vehicle, which looked very much like a sports car battered from an exploding VTOL up close, carelessly sped off into the direction of Tokyo-3; probably putting as much distance as it can between them and the giant monster wrecking havoc in this part of town. Whoever was driving it though, he was thankful that the driver got there in time to save the kid from dying. Whether it was luck, fate, or unprecented divine intervention, he really didn't care. He was just grateful for the unexpected rescue. Even if the way the driver had handled the vehicle was...questionable, at most.

He sincerely hoped they made it out okay.

 _"To all callsigns currently engaging hostile bogey, in the vicinity of grid sierra-delta-four-four-eight-three-five-one, this is Juliet Actual."_ the radio crackled to life with the grave voice of the air wing commander, bringing Reagan back to the battle at hand. _"Be advised, bogey has slipped past all designated killzones, from one-charlie all the way to one-golf. All available assets brought forward to contain the advancing hostile has so far failed. As of this moment, the situation has now been deemed extremely critical at this time."_

 _Oh, no._ The young captain thought to himself as he mentally prepared for what he knew the wing commander was going to say.

 _"Gentleman,"_ the voice continued, _"I have now been authorized by UN High Command, to ascertain the possibility of potential November Strikes on this hostile threat. As of now, your current orders still stand. Buy us more time. And if you can, God willing, bring this son of a bitch down once and for all. If that doesn't work...well, you know what'll happen next. God help us all. Juliet Actual, out."_

This was it, then.

He knew it was going to happen eventually, but he never thought it would progress wildly this fast, and in just so little time. By now, they should have already won this battle and proceeded with the mop-up that would usually ensue after. It wasn't supposed to be used at all, except as a deterrent, and as the UN military's genuine last resort; only to be deployed when all other tactical or strategic options were thoroughly exhausted. Looking back at the last time a November Strike was ordered, it was used to fully eradicate a rogue belligerent nation-state just six years ago, when they were preying on unarmed and fully-loaded cargo ships at the Strait of Malacca. When negotiations had failed to find a suitable compromise, and the initial military campaign that followed soon after was bogged down by defeat after defeat, and setback after setback. After two months' worth of patience and human capital was lost to the wind, the countries leading the United Nations grew impatient, and thus finally ordered one it's reigning member states to carry out the edict.

In less than eight hours after the word was given for initial deployment, four hundred thousand people lost their lives in a matter of moments. Just like that, the war was over. And the civilized world had won somewhat gloriously.

But they cheated in order to finalize that goal. And the poor souls who died during it's use never saw it coming.

Reagan never thought he'd actually live to see the day, with one being ordered once more to eliminate a seemingly unstoppable enemy. Even if it was greatly more efficient, and more safe to use than its predecessors that it had wholeheartedly replaced in active service, it still should never be used in the first place. Such weapons greatly made them more tempting to be widely deployed, mostly because it was designed without the fallbacks and downsides of last-generation WMD weaponry.

And right now some diehard military nut, somewhere in the High Command's general staff, was probably itching for the chance to blow up another city off the face of this planet, and would more than probably cream his pants from having witnessed such an insane display of righteous military prowess.

That probably isn't that far off from the truth.

As if the hollow victories during the Second Impact campaigns weren't bad enough.

Truth be told, a November Strike is more than likely to be ordered sooner rather later, if the current rate of their success against their foe is any indication. They've been pounding at it for the better part of almost two and a half hours now, and it still didn't have a fucking dent on it. Not even a tiny scratch!

One could assume that there was like an invisible force field or some shit permeating on the very surface of the creature's exterior, glancing every forceful blow it was subjected on to protect the creature from further harm. If It had just tough armor, it probably would've had any form of glancing marks right about now, just to show that they had actually done something to the fucking thing. It was the only explanation he could think of that made some sort of sense.

But...just thinking about the inevitability of a November Strike being carried out, what would happen to the people who lived here? Coming back to this place, only to find out that their homes, which they so lovingly built and worked hard to make, were now nothing but a smoldering crater filled with sorrow and unadulterated heartbreak. Was victory really worth it that much as to make tens of thousands of people relatively homeless overnight? Make them relive the horrors of Second Impact all over again, even just for the briefest of moments?

Reagan knew he was just a lowly captain in the vast hierarchy that was the professional military, and he definitely knew his place in it most of the time, but goddamn it. It sucked ass feeling this much remorse in faithfully executing his orders, knowing that people were gonna suffer, one way or another.

One saving grace at least was that he just glad that he hadn't trained to be a bomber jock. Otherwise, he probably would've flown one of those hulking B-52's or some other heavy bird just like it, carrying that miserable payload, and dropping it from high altitude. All the while living with the knowledge that you were mostly responsible for taking out a thriving community's habitat just because you were ordered to and it was for the greater good.

He _absolutely_ didn't envy the guy carrying out the Strike. No, sir.

 _"Juliet Actual, Viper Lead."_ the flight leader called out on the command net, voice clearly tired and wiped but still trying to carry on regardless. _"Flight is now Winchester. Repeat, we are bone dry. Requesting permission to RTB at this time, over."_

 _"Negative, Viper Lead. You are to do whatever it takes to slow down hostile bogey. Over."_

 _"What...?"_ Viper Lead disbelievingly asked, as if he couldn't believe what his ears were hearing. _"Say again, Juliet Actual. Repeat your last, over."_

 _"You heard me, son."_ the wing commander gruffly replied with serious conviction. _"We're still making arrangements for the upcoming Strike. Until then, all flights are to carry out their current orders to the letter, and proceed on mission. Over."_

 _"Uh, in-interrogative: what do we do in terms of offensive combat, sir? Our pods are empty and our guns are dry. We have no way to effectively complete our mission. Sir."_

 _"What's your fuel state."_

 _"My what?"_

 _"Quit trying to be fucking deaf, Viper Lead!"_ the clearly older officer reprimanded his subordinate on the comms. _"Now I say again, what is your fucking fuel state? Over."_

 _"Uh..."_ the flight leader paused, seemingly unsure. _"It...it says forty percent, sir. But what does that have to do with—"_

 _"Good! If you can still fly, then you most certainly can still kick a little ass!"_

 _"But—"_

 _"Listen, Viper Lead. I don't give a damn if you fly around the target in circles, run interference all over it, or even fucking ram it with your bird if you have to! But you_ will _buy us more time to deploy until we initiate November Strike, and you_ will _hold your ground! Is that understood?!"_

 _"…yes,sir."_

 _"Excellent! That goes for the rest of you in the squadron! Hold until told otherwise, are you receiving me?"_

 _"Yes, sir!"_ the rest of the attack bird pilots immediately chimed in.

 _"Outstanding! Now quit all of your bitching, we got a battle to win. Juliet Actual, out."_

* * *

 _"Juliet Actual, this is Zulu-Niner,"_ a cool and collected voiced piped in the command net on everyone's comms, about ten minutes later, _"currently holding orbit one-three-five klicks away, west-north-west relative to the primary target area. Air speed is one-five-zero knots steady at angels three, bearing two-nine-one. On station, ready for November Strike tasker. Over."_

 _"Roger, Zulu-Niner. Standby for relay."_

 _"Copy that, standing by. Over."_

There really wasn't any turning back now. Not after this.

Authorization for emergency November Strike deployment had finally been approved as of nine minutes ago, as the wing commander consulted with the regional military command currently residing in the fortress city of Tokyo-3, while they in turn requested civilian approval from UN headquarters in New York for immediate weapons release. What should've taken about an hour or three of constant back-and-forth bickering, between the merits and authority necessary for the usage of such a destructive protocol, suddenly evaporated; as the seriousness of the current situation immediately paved the way for logical reasoning to take hold in the upper echelons of the UN's leadership.

After assuredly getting everything in order, a B-3 strategic stealth bomber—based out of the same airbase as him and Saint-Paul—was quickly scrambled out of New Yokota's paved twelve thousand foot runways, with a priority order straight from the highest levels of the international government and it's subordinate military; to proceed to a designated holding pattern near the target area, and await further orders to launch the deadly payload it was carrying.

All it needed now was precise coordinates for use in it's launch, which was where he came in.

Since his Raptor pair was the only lone reconnaissance asset tailing it with dedicated sensors and optics, Reagan had been given a new set orders by the big-wigs in High Command just so very recently. Using the onboard targeting equipment in his F-22, he was ordered by the brass to laze the target up until the very last moment, just before the ordnance was about halfway in its vectored approach, where he was to bug out immediately afterwards at full burn westbound, away from the settlement and the impending doom set upon it.

All of a sudden, his mind quickly took over and he unconsciously thought about that little blue sports car and it's occupants from previously, whoever and wherever they were, just speeding off into the distance and away from everything. He didn't know why, but he gave a short prayer to the Lord Almighty, telling the Big Guy upstairs that he hoped with all his heart that they made it out okay.

What reason compelled him to do just that, he honestly didn't know. It just felt right, he supposed, even though he was far from being religious.

Yes, believe it not, not all Irish-blooded people were devout Catholics.

Still faithfully orbiting directly overhead above the target, the captain switched off his optical imagers' high-resolution camera setting and shifted to it's familiar IR mode once more, making everything on his main vid-feed dull with bland grayscale and the giant creature on it a really distinguishable white. Next to the screen, he inputted a series of commands into the control interface that fed instructions to the stealth's fighter's built-in targeting pod; where a pair inside of it, that composed a laser designator and nav-link, worked in tandem to identify potential targets, then guide in any precision ordnance to those said targets with frightening accuracy.

On the display, a tiny invisible dot materialized on the target's sizable chest.

Yep, there was no turning back.

 _"Zulu-Niner, this is Juliet Actual. Target has been lit. I say again, target has been lit. Confirm you have payload set for delivery, over."_

 _"Roger, payload is ready for deployment."_

 _"You may begin launch sequence."_

 _"Solid copy, over."_

Would guiding in this ordnance make him partly—probably even wholly—responsible for ensuring this place's destruction? Would God ever find it in his heart to forgive him? Why was it starting to bother him now out of all times?

 _"Juliet Actual, Zulu-Niner. ETA for weapons release is ten seconds, over."_

 _"Copy that. All VTOL flights within the vicinity of bogey location, fall back. I say again, all flights operating in grid sierra-delta-four-four-eight-three-two-three, fall back to designated RV points now and await further orders. Out."_

The remaining MV-28's, with their munitions completely expended and their roles unceremoniously switched from attack aircraft to just plain bait, didn't need to be told twice to evacuate; as they immediately turned tail and bugged out towards various different directions.

Most of the pilots in it didn't even bother covering up their sighs of relief, as they finally had the chance to head back home and live to fight another day. He could only assume that playing as expendable targets, to buy the bomber more time to prep, wasn't exactly what they had envisioned when they decided to join up in the service all those years ago.

Can't say he could really blame them for feeling that much respite.

 _"This is Zulu-Niner, payload has now been launched. Repeat, November Strike is now underway, TOT confirmed five mikes. We are outta here. Good luck to whoever's left behind. Zulu-Niner, out._

Reagan idly wondered what the payload's nominal yield was being set to? For starters, he knew for a fact that the weapon being currently used, had the distinct option of allowing it's operators to specify its overall explosive blast, allowing a single design to be used in a variety of different situations.

Would it be set with the same amount of force used to level Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Or would it be dialed down considerably to _at least_ limit the adverse long-term damages of such a weapon's drastic use? There was only one way to found out, and he'd know about it soon enough.

Two minutes later, his helmet's built-in speakers squawked in alarm, as his Raptor's powerful AESA radar instantly picked up a fast moving object, currently skimming at low altitude from the west. Focusing his imagers there, it only took one quick grimacing look at his main display to immediately identify what was coming.

An AGM-86 ALCM, or air launched cruise missile. The payload must've been jury-rigged to fit in one of those antique Cold War-era puppies. It was just as old as those Jap tanks that were blown to bits earlier.

The aforementioned missile was now on a straight course towards the target area, not even bothering to do it's pre-programmed evasion routine, as it just sped it's way towards utter destruction with single-minded purpose.

If he could see it, then it was probably high time to rapidly vacate the surrounding area. He turned on his radio to transmit.

"All callsigns this net, this is Saberhawk One. Confirm I have PID of November Strike now on approach vector to hostile bogey. Repeat, November Strike is on target. ETA probably two and a half to three mikes. Flight is bugging out at this time, over."

No response. At least he anticipated as much.

He paused, then glanced his head slightly to the right. "Saberhawk Two, come to heading zero-eight-zero. On my mark."

 _"Uh,"_ the uncertain voice of his wingman, the first time he's ever heard of such a thing, responded, _"r-roger that."_

"Mark."

As one, the two aircraft's twin rudders swiftly shifted, making the stealth fighters turn right towards north-east-east in a matter of seconds; now completely abandoning their holding pattern and purposely facing away from the target.

"Standby to go full burn on my mark." The captain ordered.

 _"Roger wilco."_

"Mark."

Gunning the throttle controls all the way forward, Reagan was pushed back towards his seat hard, as the stealth fighter bucked forward like a thoroughbred mare on steroids, and possibly with jetpacks on it. Unchecked momentum rooted him on the spot as his Raptor picked up more speed in just a ridiculous amount of time. In less than thirty seconds, he already broke through the sound barrier with a resounding boom, with the aircraft's Pratt & Whitney F119 turbofan engines straining to provide him with as much acceleration as possible.

Below his waist, he could already feel the lower part of his abdomen and legs starting to tighten, as the g-suit he was wearing already started to inflate automatically; with g-sensitive valves on the aircraft signaling the suit's inflatable bladders, to delay the draining of blood away from his brain as much as possible in order to stay awake.

It wouldn't be long now before the missile went off in a dizzying display of sheer explosive force. And when that moment comes, he planned on being safely secured at a credible safe distance, flying in lazy racetrack patterns somewhere as he awaited further orders. He could almost feel that goal within his reach.

Just a little bit longer...

But before he could reach his intended destination though, everything that was left in his wake was washed in an intense wave of blinding bright light, as the payload finally went off somewhere in the settlement.

The captain didn't even dare look back, just gritting his teeth as prayed to high heaven that the coming shockwave wouldn't snatch his fighter out of the sky.


End file.
